


The Best of Times

by OmniscientPhoenix



Series: The Devil's Kiss Sequence [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood Memories, Companion Piece, Fluff, M/M, Memories, Pool & Billiards, Pre-Series, The Coldest Circle of Hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniscientPhoenix/pseuds/OmniscientPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first night in hell Lucifer offers Sam a deal: stop fighting and Sam will get to relive his best and brightest memories once a year.<br/>This is not the story of the bad days.<br/>This is the story of all good ones, the light in the shadows.<br/>This is the story of how the boy with the demon blood survives Hell.    </p><p> Companion fic to the Coldest Circle of Hell.  Can be read as stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes a deal.

The first night in hell Lucifer offers him a deal. 

Submit, play nice, earn a reward.  

See, the Cage is a sandbox of nightmares and torture and fear.  But if you know how to work the system the same magic that fuels the horrors of the cage can be redirected to create something so much better.   

Submit, play nice, and live out the best and brightest memories one day a year.    

Sam knows better than to make deals with the devil.  

But, it can never be said Lucifer isn't persuasive.  And boy does he persuade, with glimpses of the Fourth of July and the brother he thought he'd lost forever.  

Seal the deal with a kiss, just the way the demon's do.

The devil's kiss brings bad days, horrible days.  And Sam knows if he had a choice, he'd take the deal all over again.    

This is not the story of the bad days.

This is the story of all good ones, the light in the shadows.

This is the story of how the boy with the demon blood survives Hell.    

 


	2. Blue Chalk Fingers and Felted Tabletops

He knows it's a good day, a memory because he wakes up to a scene so far removed from the Cage it's not really on the same plane of existence.  

Which it's not the same plane, not really.  It's a seedy dive bar that's seen better days, dimly lit and worn around the edges much like it's patrons.

There's a figure at the bar flirting with the pretty, brunette bartender and Sam smiles.  It's Dean, impossibly young, only twenty or so and he turns toward Sam with a grin and a beer in one hand.  He walks over, pulling a drag from the glass and Sam realizes not for the first time that the sight of his brother's lips wrapped around something shouldn't make him shiver like that.

"Heya, Sammy.  You ready?"  

Dean’s breath smells like the $2 beer on special, bitter and hoppy.

"Ugh, your breath already smells like a brewery, dude.  How's that even possible?" 

In reality, Sam doesn’t really mind the smell.  Cheap beer mingles with Old Spice and aftershave and motor oil, a smell so entirely _Dean_ that Sam feels himself unconsciously relax as he breathes it in.  He remembers a random fact from freshman bio, remembers that scent was the first sense to develop in their ancient ancestors.  They used it as a form of identification and he supposes his response to the mere smell of his brother makes sense.  Ancient evolution transformed into modern recognition.  Not that the science of the thing really matters.  It's the smell of home and that's something no scientist will ever be able to describe. Maybe art could come close, but even then it falls short of the real thing, musky and so very real.  Even in the form of a memory.  

Sam remembers this particular day well and it's one of his favorites.   

Dean had dragged him here to teach him how to hustle pool.  John'd been gone for a solid three weeks, something about tracking a vamp nest and while that's par for the course, the absence's not doing Dean’s wallet any favors.

“Gotta keep my Sammy in Lucky Charms and Spaghettios,” Dean chuckles when he suggests it and while Sam prefers more legal means of income, he's more than willing to help out.  He’s not a kid anymore, notices when Dean mumbles “Already ate” more often than not and even with Dean giving up his share of the food Sam’s stomach still grumbles when he lays in bed at night.  It’s not enough food for one of them, let alone both, but they share as best as they can. That is when Dean's willing to take what Sam offers him.

So, they're standing in the middle of some dive called O’Leary’s.  Of course, Sam’s not old enough to be in here, won’t be for another five years but it’s not the kind of establishment that would care.  It's not as if he's drinking and he’s tall enough for the bartender to claim ignorance should anyone official come asking. 

“Alright little brother, let’s practice," Dean announces gesturing to an unoccupied table.  

Sam's played this game before, not that Dean knows that.  In fact, he's a pretty good at it.  After all, it's a game based on things he understands, geometry and physics, forces and angles.  Dean thinks Sam's never so much as touched a cue, but he's more than willing to clear up that misconception.  Dean gets off on big brother superiority way too often for his taste.  

Dean’s at his side, glass of cheap beer in hand and he smiles, lips pressed against it as condensation drips down the side. 

“You ready, Sammich?  We’re gonna teach you a real life skill, kid.” 

He rolls his eyes and snatches a cue.  “Whatever you say, Dean.” 

“I’m serious, Sammy.  You’ve gotta learn how to play the game.  Requisite Winchester skill.” 

He doesn’t even bother replying, plucking balls from the pockets and rolling them towards the right end of the table.  He orders them deftly, knows the rules of eight ball even if it's been a while.  He remembers helping Dean memorize the rules when his brother turned fourteen, quizzing him on various games from a beat up paperback lifted from the local library. 

He presses them tight inside the wooden triangle, making sure he doesn’t leave space between the balls as he lifts the rack and sets it aside. 

“Nice rack there, Sammy,” Dean says and Sam glares up at him, flushing pink.  “Keeping it nice and tight,” he wiggles his eyebrows and Sam can’t help but snort. 

“Shut up, jerk.”

“Bitch.” 

He crosses over to Dean’s end of the table where he’s chalking the tip of his cue, fingertips stained blue with chalk.  He elbows his brother, snatching the blue square to chalk his own cue liberally.  He’ll be damned if he miscues first try. 

“Alright, Sammich.  Ladies first,” his older brother gestures and Sam takes that as the signal to break.

A shitty break means a shitty game and he knows his big brother's just setting him up for failure.   

So when he lines up his cue and sends the white ball into the assortment of solids and stripes with a resounding crack he can’t help the proud smirk he shoots Dean, as one, two balls drop in the pockets. 

He lines up a shot and sinks another, before he sends a ball wild. 

“Stripes,” he announces smugly and Dean stares at him, incredulously. Not the best start but as far as Dean knows Sam hasn’t had any practice at this.  Doesn’t know Sam’s friend Luke ( _boyfriend_ , if he’s being completely honest) had a pool table in his basement.

Sam blushes at the memory.  They used to play, out of ear and eye shot from Luke's parents.  They'd get a few games in before Luke would press into his back as he made a shot, press kisses into the nape of his neck.  Distracting until Sam would give up, dropping the cue to the ground and pulling him in for a kiss.  Sliding his tongue into the other boy's mouth, licking and biting until they were both hard and heavy in their jeans.  He'd spread Sam over the felt surface, yanking his jeans until they pooled at his ankles.  Press soft kisses into his inner thigh until he sucked him down.  Sam learned a lot more than pool in that basement and he shifts as he blood pools in his crotch at the memory.

He's pulled back to the memory when Dean speaks again.    

“Nice, Sam,” he murmurs and he leans over, squinting one eye shut as he lines up his shot.  “Left corner,” he announces, pointing with the cue.  That's how the game's played, the Winchesters don’t play slop.  You hit the right pocket or you might as well have missed the ball.  Crack, and an expert shot sends the ball into the corner.  “Center,” another gesture, another ball.  He misses, scratching with a grimace as Sam snickers and plucks the cue ball from the pocket.

“At least you sank one,” he teases and Dean shoots him a glare. 

“Whatever, Samantha.  Beginner’s luck,” he grumbles and Sam lines up the shot in the kitchen with a smirk.  He sends another two balls into their pockets.

They snark back and forth over the blue felt until the eight ball’s the only one left and Sam’s left in a terrible position to sink the damn thing.

It’s a bank shot and he knows, just knows that he’s going to scratch because that’s what he does every single fucking time.  Luke used to make fun of him for it, he couldn’t master the elusive bank shot no matter how hard he tried.

“Basic skill, Sam.  No great pool player’s repertoire is complete without the bank shot," Luke would laugh.

Of course, Sam would just grumble and kiss him until the other boy fell to his knees.  The sloppy, sweet blowjobs were a lot more fun than the frustration of sending the damn cue ball into the pocket right alongside the eight ball, losing him the game.

That way they both won, he thought.  And he was right, Luke was enthusiastic and Sam was more than willing to return the favor.  With a bit more skill he thought, but he wasn’t going to complain.  Wet and enthusiastic was better than a frustrated shower and conditioner slick hand.   

So of course he’s standing in that bar with Dean and he wants desperately to win for reasons he’d rather not think about.  He knows he wants to impress Dean and the more he thinks about Luke’s pool table, the harder he’s getting and it doesn’t help when Dean crosses over to press into Sam’s side. 

“Need some help, baby brother?”He whispers and he’s too close, Sam can feel his cock twitch in his jeans as a dark red flush travels from his chest to his neck. 

“No- no,” his voice cracks and he shifts uncomfortably.  “No, I’ve got it.” 

Dean chuckles, a low rumble and Sam chooses to ignore the way the sound seems to be directly connected to his cock.  “I’m here to teach you baby boy.  Teach you things your little friend Luke never even dreamed of.” 

Sam chokes, knows his face flushes even darker and if Dean didn’t know Luke was more than a friend before he certainly knows now. 

“That’s okay, Sammy,” he whispers in his ear, moist breath carrying the scent of hops brushing over his ear.  “I don’t care who you sleep with.  Cute kid.” 

He chokes again and,  _fuck_ , his cock is reacting to the sound of Dean’s voice and he needs a long, private shower.  Now. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles, tongue tripping over the lie and Dean laughs again. 

“Like I said I don’t care, Sammy.  But if you wanted to hide something like that you shouldn’t have come home reeking of sex with your mouth all swollen like that,” he presses a little closer and Sam can’t breath, can’t breath with the smell of Old Spice and that rumble in his ear.  “I thought maybe you were lying about going over to Luke’s to play pool, maybe you had a girlfriend or something.  So I followed you one time and you know what?  Someone _was_ sucking your dick and it wasn’t some girl.  Just your little friend Luke.”   

Dean’s hand goes to his waist then, “I don’t care that you like boys, Sammy.  Don’t care if you like girls.  Just wish you would’ve told me about it,” there’s something tender in his brother’s voice and acceptance threads the hunger there.  Unconditional love and Sam thinks that for all the teasing there, Dean really does want him to know he doesn’t care that his little brother likes boys or girls or both.  He accepts him and loves him and suddenly the flush fades.  Sam nods silently, clears his throat.

“Okay, Dean.  Teach me.” 

He knows that he should be referring to the bank shot but something in him desperately wants to drag Dean into the bathroom and get down on his knees.  Wants to show Dean what he learned in that basement that doesn't involve cues and chalk.  He imagines sprawling out on this pool table in front of all these people, fuck the consequences, as long as he gets to see those pink, lush lips wrapped around his cock. 

Dean looks a little pink himself as he adjusts himself so he's a long, hot line pressing against Sam’s back. 

“It’s not that hard, little brother,” he murmurs, air brushing past the shell of Sam’s ear.  “Just looks intimidating.” 

Gentle callused hands guide the cue so it’s lined up properly, pointing the ball so it will hit the wall and bounce back into it’s proper pocket. 

“Don’t hit it too hard.  You’ll scratch.  Just the right amount of force,” Sam presses back against his brother and in that moment he swears he feels the hard line of his cock pressing into his ass, one that matches the tent in his own jeans, barely concealed by the pool table.  He lines up his shot, expecting Dean to step back but he doesn’t.  “Not too hard, baby brother.”

“Left pocket," and with a slow exhale Sam hits the ball, not quite as hard as all those other times.  It sails into the pocket and with that Sam’s won, beat his brother at his own game and Dean whoops, pride in his voice. 

“That’s it, Sammy.  Just like that,” and he’s peeling himself off of Sam’s back, putting space between them now that the moment's over.  “Just like that.”

“Thanks,” a pleased blush spreads across his cheeks and he should be excited that he finally managed the shot, but he's hard in his jeans and it's incredibly distracting.

It's a little awkward, now that the moment's over and Dean clears his throat nervously.     

“Wanna mess with those suckers over there,” his brother says, pointing to two men that just walked through the door and Sam smiles. 

“Yeah, Dean.  After I win I’m taking you out for burgers.”

The men buy Dean’s story about teaching his little brother pool and they don't need to agree to lose the first two games.  One hundred dollars later, Dean's running towards the Impala, yelling at Sam to hurry up before he has to spend the night stitching up his pretty-boy face. 

They escape, just barely, and at an all night diner Sam keeps his promise and buys two burgers and an entire apple pie. 

It’s their first real meal in a week and nothing's ever tasted better. 

“Cheers to me for being the best teacher ever,” Dean announces, holding out his Coke for a toast and Sam rolls his eyes, as he clinks his glass with his older brother’s.

“Yeah.  Thanks, man,” he says quietly and it’s genuine.

Dean flushes a little at the tone of his voice. “Well you already knew.  I just taught you how to take advantage of some shitheads with too much money in their pockets.” 

Sam shrugs and smiles again, “Yeah.  And I’m gonna make sure those shitheads are gonna keep you in burgers and pie.” 

After that night they play pool when funds run low and it keeps their stomachs full.  As time goes on Sam gets better than his brother, hustling pool as easily as Dean cheats at cards.   

Sam never admits the memories of Dean pressing him against the pool table fuel his long, conditioner slick showers for weeks.

The memories that stick with him at hell stay with him for a reason.  

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned before this work is a companion piece to my other fic "The Coldest Circle of Hell".  
> If you enjoyed this fic and would like to check out the main story you can find it below at:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/4820024/chapters/11036540


End file.
